


flexible response

by arbitrarily



Category: Veep
Genre: F/M, Hate Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 14:06:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1553090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arbitrarily/pseuds/arbitrarily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The road to the presidency is paved with all sorts of bad intentions: a campaign stop-over dominated by fracking, figures, and fucking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	flexible response

**Author's Note:**

> General spoilers through 3x04.

 

 

**New Orleans, Louisiana  
11:00 pm**

 

“Say fracking one more time: I double doggy-style fucking dare you.”

Kent doesn’t even register it as a challenge. He just holds his hands out and open as he faces Selina and says, “It’s an issue.” He doesn’t say the other part that she just knows is implicit in his tone and his hands and his told-you-so face: it’s an issue and it’s her fault. Ever since that stop-over meet-and-greet in Silicon Valley, the very word _fracking_ has been following her around like an extremely stubborn, petty poltergeist.

“Fucking fracking, frick-a-fuck,” she says under her breath. Kent turns back to the laptop perched on the coffee table. At the other end of the couch, Selina slouches a little lower and crosses her legs.

“Maybe,” she says, “it’s like Beetlejuice: you say it enough times and, _poof_ , another angry constituent will just pop up, right here in front of us, berating me for what a bad job I’ve done, gang-raping Mother Earth through the evils of _fracking_.” She mouths the final word, like that Beetlejuice theory might have some credence.

Kent doesn’t acknowledge her. Selina rolls her neck until it cracks. God, she’s fucking bored.

They arrived in New Orleans earlier that day, a campaign stop-over tied to veep duties at some Sorry About FEMA event. They spent the evening fine-tuning her remarks for the next morning, hob-knobbing with Louisiana politicians (“like dining with pigs at an actual trough”), and trying to pass off uneaten bowl after bowl of gumbo. Gary gave in to the gumbo and his delicate digestive system proved no match. He’s been holed up in the bathroom in his room since dinner. Mike went down to brief the press well over an hour ago, and Selina’s positive that from there he stumbled into the first open bar on Bourbon Street. And Amy had begged off, in the name of liaising with Dan – still in DC, holding down the fort and trying to hold off Jonah from whatever new social media insurgence he’s plotted next.

Which left Kent. Kent and his numbers. Kent and Selina alone in her hotel suite. He came to the suite pissed about new polling data, but when isn’t that calculator RoboCop of a man pissed about polling data. His programming probably dictates it. It also probably dictates his constant need to "strategize," the banner he was flying when he came over.

“An ounce of prevention, worth a pound of cure,” he said when he came in, a cerulean ( _not_ blue; Mike learned that the hard way) binder held aloft, laptop tucked under his arm.

“Yeah, yeah, go fly a fucking kite, Ben Franklin,” but she had left the door open behind her, and he followed.

He’s still talking now – grassroots something or maybe it was grass-fed – and she sinks lower into her corner of the couch.

She glances over at him as he talks – the EPA, he’s definitely talking about the EPA, probably definitely maybe not – and it’s really fucking weird being alone with him. They’re alone together sometimes, but never _alone_ alone. There’s always Gary’s supervision, like he’s a valet invented by the Nanny State, or it’s them eating breakfast together with Amy or Mike or Dan circling them with Chung news, Maddox news, bad news, never good news.

“Are you listening?” he asks her.

“I was just wondering,” she says slowly, “who around here I’d have to blow to get me a voodoo doll in,” she points at him, “your likeness.” Her finger moves in a circle. “Pins. In all the places.”

Kent barely arches an eyebrow. He sets his elbow bent on his knee, hand curled into a fist his head is balanced against and looks at her as a pause lengthens between them.

“Unmarried male voters between the ages of eighteen and – ”

Selina makes a puppet with her hand and mouths, _blah blah blah_. So they’ve made the shift from fracking to the current pressing thorn in his side: her status as not just a woman but an unmarried woman.

“The public’s got concerns with a female president. Especially when that female president is a divorcee with a kid.”

Selina rolls her eyes. No, she was wrong. It’s not weird being alone with him. The weird part is how well the two of them have been more or less getting along. That’s some fucking strange shit right there. Maybe it’s the whole working for a common goal thing. It’s got them both with their claws retracted, in search of common enemies. And there are a lot of common fucking enemies out there.

“A grown kid, I might add,” she snaps. “I’m not chasing toddlers and shit-filled diapers around the West Wing.”

“They’d like you better as a widow,” Kent had told her earlier. He had numbers to back that assertion up.

Kent’s got a number for everything. He’s a probability machine who probably weighs the digestive odds of taking a shit the next morning before ordering anything off the menu.

Selina had laughed one note; the polls wouldn’t like that sound, it was the very opposite of lady-like. “Yeah? We can do something about that. I’ll name you my campaign assassin and you can go drop Andrew’s body into the Potomac, widow-status established.”

“With pleasure, ma’am,” and even though when he said it he was scratching a pen over some chart or the other, he had said it with the closest thing to pleasure Kent Davison exhibited. So they were getting along, and that was nice, she guessed. Nicer still if it really did end with Andrew dead and underwater.

That was three days ago, when they had been in the air somewhere over Kansas or Arkansas (it was probably Arkansas since it had led to an entire diatribe of an aside by Mike about the pronunciation and a litany of unfunny jokes revolving around him saying _Our-Kansas_ ). Now, they’re still bickering about the immutable fact that she is an unmarried woman with a daughter and a vagina.

“What are they worried about? That I’m gonna turn it into the fucking Ova Office? That I’ll cry into a box of maxi pads every time Congressman Shit-Bag Doyle gets pissed I’m not sucking enough crippled geriatric dick?”

Kent doesn't glance up at her. 

Kent’s a poor audience for her. Unless he’s sermonizing about raw data and bell curves (his standard deviation is one “hallelujah” from truly becoming an evangelical math prophet) and treating her like he’s trying to civilize her raised-by-wolves persona, he largely does not care. The longer they spend time together the more she feels like a profanity-laced white noise machine.

Dismissive, that’s what he is.

Selina kicks off the $700 Manolos Gary had picked out fourteen hours ago and winces as she curls her toes.

“I miss Gary,” she whines. “That poor fucker.” She scrunches her nose up. “Glad he’s down the hall though.”

She presses her thumb just under the ball of her foot and hisses. “You know what I really miss about Gary?”

“His spirited personality,” Kent says, distracted. He’s clearly moved on from her, swapped out flesh-and-blood Selina for the one rendered by pie charts and probabilities – the one that much easier to manipulate in his favor.

She ignores him. Digs her thumb in that much harsher. “His grade-A foot massages.” She pauses, stretches her legs out in front of them, her feet disappearing under the coffee table. “God, Gary gives a good foot massage.”

“I am sure he does,” Kent says, unquestionably uninterested.

Selina scowls at him. She watches him type and something ugly twists in her, that something ugly that likes to start shit.

She kicks both her legs up onto the couch, tucked to the side at first, like she’s a fancy land-bound mermaid. And then, entirely deliberate, she nudges his thigh with her big toe.

Kent looks down at her foot like it’s an alien appendage.

His mouth twists and if he was capable of processing actual human emotions she might call it a smirk. “Outside my job description, ma’am.”

He turns back to his laptop. She props her head up with her hand, arm bent against the arm of the couch.

Selina’s bored. More than that: Selina is itching for a good fight. Before Kent decided he was done pissing on POTUS’s grave and defected to her side of the political cemetery, he used to be the one to give it to her. That’s probably why she nudges his thigh with her toes again, more annoying and more insistent this time. That, and she’s far more interested in getting a rise out of him than an actual foot massage (coming from him, it’d probably be like sticking your foot in a garbage compactor).

She pokes his thigh again, and this time he grabs her by the ankle. She freezes. His grip is tight – Vulcan strength, or something – and she thought he would just cast her off immediately (as gently and respectfully as one can bodily disengage the Vice President of the fucking goddamn United States), but instead he holds on and for a full minute they sit there awkwardly: Kent with her bare ankle clutched in his hand, typing and scrolling through an Excel spreadsheet with the other while Selina half sits, half lounges, one leg spread out to him, the other inelegantly bent.

Finally, she wiggles her toes and she says, “I take it I’m not getting that foot massage, huh.”

Kent moves too, pulls her foot down to the floor and relinquishes his grip. “No. Ma’am.” His tone is almost smug.

Selina’s seen the way Kent is with Sue, all that creepy courtly complimentary chivalrous shit, like either he’s trying to take her out to a steak dinner or get her to join his kool-aid drinking numbers-crunching Charles Manson-lite nerd cult. He’s not that way with her at all. Every gesture of solicitousness aimed her way reeks of both contempt and a private agenda.

He doesn’t look at her, but his entire body has that super rigid, forged-by-Skynet carriage to it, like he’s holding himself in check. And that? That is really fucking interesting.

That? Is when she decides she really wants to fuck with him.

Selina swings her foot back up. This time it lands on his upper thigh, stupidly close to his crotch. And she’s feeling reckless. She’s feeling fucking bored and he’s boring her.

She flexes her foot a little, and he’s as severe and unreadable as ever (how he has not made a fuck-ton of cash on the World Poker Tour circuit is beyond her). She can feel his keys in his pocket under her foot and she grounds her heel down. His hands still against the keyboard.

This has always been why she likes politics – the circling of prey, how they all think they’re top of the food chain but all you have to do is find that weak spot, and then, boom: pin them. Make them yours. Actually, she fucking hates politics, but goddamn, does she love a good kill.

A long time ago, back during her first bid for president, back when she still had actual political capital, they brought Kent on board. Kent told her he liked her, or as much as Kent ever liked a person. He said she was carnivorous and she was hungry and he said it like those were the two best fucking things not only a woman but a politician could be.

Well, he sure wasn’t wrong.

His still body right now is kinda like a time bomb she’s super curious about detonating. She curls her toes and says, petulant and whiny, “I’m bored.” She slides her foot that much higher. She's all but renaming the game of chicken to some bad pun involving the word _cocks_. There’s a beat where she can actually feel him inhale and brace himself, like he’s realigning internal organs or something.

And then he stands up, her leg falling off him as his knee bumps against first the coffee table and then his laptop. Kent’s got his hands on his hips, his posture still stiff, more irritated than anxious or nervous. Selina stands up too. Something’s shifted in the room, the antagonism she’s thirsting after rooted in a thing that's a whole lot less innocent than whatever and wherever their usual conflict springs from.

“Such self-discipline,” she sneers, hands on her own hips, mocking him. “And here I thought you’d jump to attention at a chance to discipline me.” The second time she invokes the word _discipline_ , it’s drenched in the syrupiest, bitchiest, most innuendo-laden tone she can muster.

Men love that sugar baby sex talk bullshit but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist or a math prodigy pollster to tell you that’s not gonna make Kent’s dick hard. It’s always gotta be antagonism. (And truth be told, she’s not entirely sure when her boredom-based agenda became about his dick, but it kinda sorta is now, if only for a show of her own superiority.)

But she’s got his attention now.

He’s looking at her like she’s a stimulus graph that’s all curves of the fuckable index or like she’s the Google mainframe cracked upon for his personal use or like she’s Dorothy and she just offered to get the old rust bucket that he is a fucking heart. Scratch that last one: there’s no way he’d be into that.

“Ma’am.” His voice is both even and bland. “I am not going to be Lewinskyed by you.”

Selina’s eyes widen in disbelief. She laughs meanly. “First of all,” she says, holding up one finger, her other hand still braced against her hip, “that implies a reversal of roles I do _not_ approve.” She looks him up and down. “Mr. President,” she says, somehow making the sarcastic title both a scoff and a simper. “And second thing? I’m single. My Hillary is an Andrew who is a shit-for-brains non-entity to me – legally, emotionally, and vaginally speaking. I am single, and we both know that. The electorate fucking knows that. Your numbers told you who told me that K-Mart shopping cousin-fucking Middle Earth hobbits of America find that makes me ‘slutty.’”

“In so many words.”

She meets his eye and bites down on a smile. This is their motherfucking pistols at dawn. Their fucking high noon.

She edges closer. “But, hey, who knows. Maybe the great American unwashed got something right, because here are two more words for you: Fuck. Me.” She prods him in the center of his chest with a pointed finger twice, emphasizing each word.

There’s a tic at his jaw and she can’t tell if it’s out of arousal or annoyance or if it’s always a combination of the two for him.

She bites the inside of her bottom lip, a shit-eating grin threatening. Because this right here? It’s all brinkmanship. She’s toying with him. She’s John F. Fucking Kennedy and he’s the pinko Soviet pain in her ass and this right here, this hotel room, is their Cuba. Or whatever. Cue the missile strike.

Because here’s the thing: she works better with him when she knows there’s the threat of his teeth at her neck, like the fucking snake he is (jackal?) (snake?) (if science could merge a snake and a jackal and cross-engineer that hybrid with a low-rent freeze-dried Transformer you’d have Kent fucking Davison).

He hasn’t moved a muscle and she’s close enough that all she has to do is get up on tiptoe and his mouth is right there. Their lips are almost touching and it’s the almost that’s making this hot, this teetering on the edge of the end of the world kind of shit.

Quietly, the closest she’s willing to trek to desperate, she says, “Come on. Fuck me.”

And, like most aspects of her political career, she had forgotten to consider the consequences. She forgot to consider how he’d fight or fuck back.

Because he does the unthinkable: he kisses her.

The shocking part isn’t just that he kisses her – he fucking kisses her, like he’s Hugh fucking Grant and she’s whoever Hugh Grant kisses in those movies about people being kissed – but it’s the closest thing she’s ever seen to tentative come from Kent Davison. Maybe he’s testing her too, maybe that’s it, and maybe they’re both big time failure fuck-ups, because she returns the small gesture, her lips ghosting against his, and if this wasn’t all so incredibly apocalyptically terrible she’d definitely laugh at first him to his face and then herself in private.

He must know this on some level – all cold-blooded robots are probably mind readers – because it takes a turn, that deadly careen around a hairpin curve where the car drives off the road and crashes and all there is is carnage and they’re kissing for real. For. Fucking. Real.

It’s filthy, all teeth and tongue, like they can’t even reach a goddamn consensus here. Unsurprisingly, he’s focused, but she thought he’d be more precise. Instead, his mouth on her mouth is violence of the personal revenge design, and even with her tongue pushing against his, she’s still kind of shell-shocked. She didn’t think he’d yield. That he’d high road her, trundle on out of here with his cock hard and ignored between his legs.

She can’t figure out if this was the response she was looking for or not, but she does know it’s certifiably insane how fast she went from wanting to fuck with him to actually wanting to fuck him.

Kissing him really is like a ten car pile-up on the Beltway: a fucking disaster.

When his hand reaches her ass, she gasps against his mouth and rears back a little. It’s still like there’s a tether strung tight through him and she’s always been curious to see what that’s like should it snap.

“See – I always knew you wanted to fuck me,” she goads.

Kent’s only a little out of breath, but that strikes her as a huge banner-on-an-aircraft-carrier-warranting accomplishment on her part. The only other time she was able to knock him off-center was with a tube of lipstick to the eye.

“Yes, Selina. Every man who disagrees with you disagrees solely on account of his repressed libido.”

She ignores his sarcasm and snorts. “Like I said: knew it.”

He leans in close to her again and out of surprise she stumbles back, hitting the edge of the little kitchenette table the suite offers.

“And we need not mention your role in this, throwing herself at a member of her staff.”

Selina turns her head and their mouths are almost touching again. It kinda makes her want to squirm against him. “Member, staff: you’re spouting some real dick language there, buddy.”

He squints at her, like he’s already spent too much of his very, very valuable time trying to figure her out.

Trying to figure her out while still palming her ass, and then he kisses her again (or she kisses him; keeping score strikes her as entirely futile at this point).

So Kent is an ass man, if only based on the fact he can’t keep his hands off hers. She stores that knowledge away for later. Politics: everything’s got a use. Even, and especially, her ass.

His fingers drag at the fabric of her dress, grabbing at the hem. She’s wearing a tight sheath dress – she hated it this morning and she definitely hates it now – that in no way is going to make it up over her hips.

Rather than drag it down, his hands still at the zipper along her spine. His arms are wrapped around her, a parody of a bear hug.

“Jesus Christ. Get me out of this dress before I change my mind.”

His hand drops away completely and he pulls back from her and looks at her face.

“Before _you_ change _your_ mind.” He says it questioningly, like they’re in some remedial foreign language-to-English class and they’re going through all the conjugations. Next will be _before_ he _changes_ his _mind_ then _before_ we _change_ our _minds_. Before _they_ change _their_ minds.

He still has that blank, faux-curious look on his face, the same one he gets when Dan tries to make conversation with him about powerboat horsepower or some article about imported Chinese honey in _The Economist_ from three weeks ago or whatever else Dan has stored in his arsenal for full-on Kent Davison Verbal Fellatio. That same look – if he also wanted to fuck Dan. “You say it like you’re doing me some grand service.”

Selina eyes the fly of his old man gabardine trousers; he’s clearly hard. “It sure as shit wouldn’t be a disservice,” she says, eyes still trained on his junk.

His eyes narrow and she stares right back.

Motherfuck if she doesn’t have to do everything herself. She reaches behind her back awkwardly, grabbing for the zipper. Her body contorts in all kinds of goofy ways as she writhes around, trying to get her zipper undone while Kent watches her dispassionately, arms folded across his chest.

She stands there in her underwear, looking at him with her chin raised, all but saying, _game fucking on_.

Which is how she winds up bent over a table, ridden like Kent has a world record in mind.

 

 

As an aside:

She always assumed if they ever did do this (by _this_ , she means each other), it’d be the climactic result of a knock ‘em down, drag ‘em out shit storm of a fight and they’d just fling themselves at each other _Crouching_ fucking _Tiger_ style onto a conference room table and let their mutual aggression give way to mutual assured destruction of the fuck-fest variety. Instead here they are in a hotel suite engaged in the weirdest non-seduction she never would have wanted to imagine.

 

 

He turns her around, bends her over the table and pulls her panties down – all in one seemingly orchestrated movement. Bent over the table her heart is beating impossibly loud, like those loud drums prior to a public execution in those movies set in olden-Guillotine-times.

He rubs his fingers over her, between her legs, and she sucks in a breath quickly. He hums what sounds like approval, and like, yeah, she’s wet for it, so what, fuck him – literally. Fuck him.

He pushes a finger into her and she pushes her hips back onto it, groaning impatiently. She turns her head to look at him over her shoulder as she says, “Your dick better be bigger than that, otherwise ... what a waste.”

She’s seen that look he’s giving her now only it’s 1000% worse (do the math on that, dream metric weavers or whatever-the-fuck he calls those pollster prisoners): like he wants to impale her, though she always assumed it’d be with a long sword and not on his fucking cock.

He unceremoniously lifts her knee up onto the table before pushing the head of his cock against her. Jesus Christ, it’s like her skin’s shrinking in size, like her impatience is manifesting itself via the feel of fire ants all over her body or something as equally horrifying as being bent over a table with her ass in the air for _this guy_. He’s got one hand at her hip holding her in place, the other flat in the center of her back, just above the clasp of her bra. He slides it up to the nape of her neck as he pushes into her roughly.

“Fuck,” she blurts out, and he pulls out, does it again – slow and deliberate until finally building up a steady though merciless rhythm. It makes her teeth chatter.

The fact that fucking Kent without a condom doesn’t even rank as the dumbest thing she’s done this week says a lot about how this campaign is going.

He’s near silent while he fucks her – just pants a little, like he turned the treadmill up to a steeper incline – whereas she can’t keep her mouth shut. It’s also breathless needy nonsense babble and her hand skids down the surface of the table to grip the edge to steady herself. Then, without thinking, she reaches back and grabs him at the hip, her nails curling. He makes a sound like, “ah!” but she’s too distracted to revel in it.  
   
With each beat of his hips she can’t stop imagining herself winning. She can’t stop imagining winning, the Oval Office, Kent on his knees behind her desk, and shit, that’s actually really fucking hot.

Kent’s nothing but rough with her. He’s stronger than her, all that goddamn pilates and his probable titanium supervillain endoskeleton, and Mary Mother of God, she kinda likes it. More than kinda, more like super-fucking-yeah-she-really-likes-it. She gets fucked by Washington all the goddamn time; it’s nice to have someone doing the fucking figure out how she likes it. Because he does. He probably has polling data. Because oh god, she’s getting fucked by Kent and his robot dick – and she likes it.

She likes it, but it kinda reminds her of that fucking website – literally, that _fucking_ website – projected on the wall at Clovis, with her head comically bobbing away like they might hand her out on opening day at RFK Stadium. Meating Meyer, Meat Meyer, Meet Meyer.

Selina is pretty sure he likes that goddamn website more than he likes her (though, to be fair, she likes a vibrating dildo more than she likes most men).

“Wait, stop,” she says (gasps, chokes, warbles: she’s kinda past the function of speaking at this point).

He stops and it’s like his frustration is this entire separate physical entity it’s that intense. Selina turns around to face him. She scoots until she’s perched on the edge of the table, her legs bracketed around him. It’s not that she wants to see his stupid dumb empty face or whatever; she just wants to stop that fucking feeling of deja vu via porn parody internet videos. So she tells him: “It’s like – it’s that website.”

Kent’s eyebrows bunch together as he frowns. He's out of breath too, and his voice is all dark and creaky and  _Law and Order_  suspect-of-the-week when he speaks. 

“The fuck you talking about?”

He’s still mostly dressed while all she has on is her bra. She grabs him by his loosened tie, almost chokes him as she pulls him to her.

“Shut up, it doesn’t matter.” Because it really, really doesn’t. Especially when he’s back inside her.

The angle’s all wrong at first, the both of them pushing against each other, every idiotic entanglement in their past made corporeal or something. But then it’s good – then it’s really fucking good and she stammers out what sounds like either Jesus’s name or, “ _geez, Louise_.”

Kent’s got his hands on her tits, her bra pushed aside, uncomfortable and useless, one hand wrapped around to her lower back, holding her in place while he fucks into her. She still has his tie clutched in one hand, wrapped around her knuckles, while the other is fisted in the front of his shirt. It’s one thing to have his dick in her but it’s another to be touching him with her hands, to have him touch her. There’s a continuum of acceptable bodily, sexual behavior when fucking people you may or may not hate, and the farther you get from necessary genital-to-genital copulation contact the weirder that shit’s gonna be in the long run.

She doesn't have long to consider the ramifications of fucking both staff members and potential future enemies as she starts making these truly heinous noises, alternating between high-pitched whines and more guttural groans. One of his hands slips up, covering her jaw, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of her neck, his grip way too tight, and then he’s kissing her. He’s fucking kissing her while she’s trying to make sure the polysyllabic noises spilling from her mouth (pressed to his mouth) never form his name.

And Jesus, he really is like a goddamn machine, his hips never once losing the crazy punishing rhythm he’s set.

Selina presses her open mouth to his shoulder, biting, trying to stay quiet when she comes. When Kent groans, it almost sounds triumphant, like making her come first is some kind of achievement – or worse, pleased (she can handle the idea he views this as a competition and himself as victor, but the idea that getting her off gets him off is just – it’s too much). She’d knock him down a peg or two, but she can’t seem to catch her breath, can’t stop clenching around him like she might come again (okay, that right there is a real fucking achievement, so bravo, she’ll let him feel proud about that), can’t believe her own ears when she hears what sounds like a terrified barn owl screech his name –

can’t believe it’s over because he’s coming, jerking erratically into her, hissing at her neck, all teeth.

 

 

After, Selina sides off the table as delicately as she can in a rubber-legged, fucked-out state, stumbling out of the nuclear holocaust of having fucked Kent Davison. _Chapter Nine: Men Fucked Despite Knowing Better; Subsection: Kent Davison._ Jesus, this is going nowhere in her fucking memoirs.

His breath steadies out faster than hers, but his tie is mangled and his shirt is rumpled, a big wet spot at the shoulder where her mouth had been.

She sticks her tits back in her bra, and when she looks up her wrinkled dress is hanging off two of his fingers. She snatches it from him, pulls it over her head quickly.

“Needless to say,” she says, her dress gaping open unzipped in the back all the way down to the crack of her ass like a couture hospital gown, “this?” She points between the two of them. “Has already been redacted from the motherfucking record.”

Kent finishes buttoning his pants and reaches for his belt buckle.

“Noted.” His mouth quirks upward. “Ma’am,” he adds.

When she shuts the bathroom door behind her she inhales deeply. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, _shit_ ,” she mutters.

The next morning she’s going to have to pull Amy aside, tell her they need to cancel the day’s events and every event after, on account of the _Silkwood_ shower she needs to take before she commits ritualized shame-based suicide. Or homicide. Both?

“Shit,” she says again.

 

 

“So, these environmental impact study numbers ... ” Kent calls to her as she steps out of the bathroom.

She’s gonna have to fucking kill him.

 

 


End file.
